


Life's Illusions

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode tag for "Outcast". Reality is not an absolute; it's a state of mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's Illusions

Ava Dixon died on December 12, 2005, losing control of her car on her way home from work on a rainy Monday night. 

Her face looks at you from the mirror every morning, but you know almost nothing about her. Richard almost never speaks of her, and whenever you ask, his face closes up and turns distant and you know it is a subject best left alone. At the beginning, you mistook his unwillingness to share anything about her as anger at your curiosity, but lately you realize that it is grief that holds his tongue. 

Whoever Ava Dixon was, she must have meant a lot to Richard. Enough for him to replace her with a machine wearing her face after her death; and you don't know what to make of that, whether caring for someone so much that you cannot let go is a good thing. Human nature with all its complexities, with its hang-ups and quirks and issues, is something you cannot fully comprehend, no matter how many books and essays on psychology you read or how long Richard works on perfecting the program that's supposed to make you a master of social interaction. 

And still, you keep wondering – about Ava and who she was, and whether she would have approved of what Richard is doing. You know you will never come to a conclusive, satisfying answer, but you can't help contemplating the issue anyway; curiosity is an integral part of your programming and there's nothing you can possibly be more curious about than the woman whose life you're living.

It must have been a lonely life for Ava. There are no friends coming round, no messages on her answering machine when you return to her flat in the evenings. It would be a lonely life for you, too; but you have Richard, who created you and teaches you and treats you like you expect a father to treat his daughter, and you have your work – and most of the time that's enough. 

When Richard dies, though, and they take away your work, there's nothing left, and suddenly you realize that you've never know anything about life in the first place. 

 

( _All those months ago when it all started, when you wanted to know any and everything about humans and their nature and their culture, trying to understand so you could adapt better, you read_ Pinocchio. 

_You thought it was highly irrational to wish for something that was impossible. Like wanting to be human when you're a wooden puppet, or a Replicator._

_Paradoxically, of course, irrationality and the desire to be someone else were both in their essence deeply_ human _emotions._ )

 

"I'm a little scared," you tell Colonel Sheppard when he sees you off into your new life. 

It's the understatement of the century. You're _terrified_ , because this is nothing like you've ever known, and you're all alone. With Richard gone, for the first time in your existence, there's no one who knows who you really are, _what_ you really are, and it's as frightening as it is liberating.

You force yourself to be the one who turns and walks away from the Colonel, off into a brave new world, because you know that if you stay one more minute, it might get too much and you'll give in and ask him to take you back with him. Back to the SGC, back to Atlantis with him, back to where you know who to be. 

But with every step you take, it gets a little easier, and as the fear fades away, you start to see the possibilities: if no one knows who you are, then you can be whoever you want to be, and no one will know that you're different.

* * *

No one tells you that you're in a virtual environment, but it doesn't take you half a day to find out. Curiously, it's not the fact that the environment is artificial that you notice first. Dr. Lee has done a great job to make it feel real – in fact, he has done his job too thoroughly: nothing in the VE seems artificial. Not even you.

It's a paper cut. 

All the trouble they have gone through, and then you give yourself a paper cut and it _bleeds_. You stare transfixed at the tiny droplets of red rising from your skin, and when it stops, you squeeze a little until there's more blood, just to be sure.

You think you probably should feel angry and betrayed, but you understand their fear of what you are and what you could do too well. 

 

( _A few weeks after Richard made you, when you were still learning how to behave like a human, he gave you a stash of DVDs to watch:_ Terminator, Battlestar Gallactica, Blade Runner _\- all kinds of fiction that portrayed artificial intelligence as an evil force set out to destroy humankind._

_"This is why you need to blend in," he told you._

_"I do not understand. I have no intention of killing humans and taking over your world." The mere idea seemed ridiculous._

_Richard took your face in his hands and sighed. "Of course you don't, child. But there are others like you who do. And the fact that you_ could _alone makes you a threat, whatever your intentions may be."_

_You nodded, even though you didn't believe that you were a threat of any kind. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't possibly wreak the kind of havoc the movies suggested._

_Then the other Replicator struck down Richard and killed the guards and you knew you had been wrong._ )

 

Experience has taught you to understand their fear, their need to confine you and put you where they can control you. When you came back to help defeat the other Replicator, you accepted the possibility that you would be put into some sort of prison, or worse. You just didn't think the prison would be anything like this.

The irony is that, even though none of this is real, you are more human than you've ever been before. You need to sleep and you need to eat and when you look into the mirror in the morning, you look a little tired and your breath mists the mirror. 

You need to relearn life because everything you've learned and taught yourself was about passing for a human, not being one. But now you are – except not, because none of this is real. You're only a part of a computer program: incorporeal, artificial, unliving, and you keep reminding yourself every day, trying to come to terms with the new status quo, trying to avoid getting fooled by the blood you've seen on your skin, and the breath on the mirror, and the hunger that makes your stomach rumble. Because the blood and your skin and the breath isn't real – not even the _mirror_ is real.

It gets too much, thinking about it like that. 

The tears (not real) sting in your eyes (not real) and then your fist (not real) smashes the glass (not real). It shatters to pieces that make ugly sounds when they hit the ground, and you keep telling yourself that none of this even exists, not even the blood that wells from the cuts on your hand. 

But the pain is too present to dismiss. Real or not, you feel it, and it hurts so much that you suddenly find it hard to fill your lungs with air. You don't think the agony could possibly be any worse if it had been a real hand, and a real mirror.

You buy a new mirror the next morning. It's a bit like buying a new life.

* * *

You do what you're expected to do: you move on. You get a job. You make friends. You move into a different apartment, because the other one was programmed to be an exact replicate of Ava's apartment on the outside, and you want to cut those ties to the past. You replace Ava's wardrobe with new clothes and throw her things away. If you were a different person, you'd burn it all in a symbolic gesture of closure. But you don't see the point of making a big fuss.

You work as a computer teacher at the local high school because you understand computers and you understand people... well, you try to, anyway. The children are a little sulky and cocksure until they realize that despite your looks you do understand more about technology than even the nerdiest of them, and your colleagues welcome you into their fold.

When Thomas, the P.E. teacher, asks you out on a date, you say yes because he's nice enough and you like him and, well, it's what people do, isn't it? Normal people, living a normal life.

There are things that you keep thinking about, though, wondering. About whether or not they watch you, and what they did to your body, and what it means that you can bleed, just how human your are, in here. Will you age? Can you get sick? Will you die, eventually, or will the program keep running until someone switches it off?

Curled up on the couch with Thomas, watching _Matrix_ on TV, you can't stop yourself from asking him, "What would you do?"

"Take the red pill, of course," Thomas says.

"Of course." 

But you wonder how you would decide, given a choice. Irrelevant, of course, because there is no choice. There is no red pill for you. Somewhere, outside the virtual environment, reality is happening, while you're trapped here inside, living a life that isn't. 

You test the idea and turn it over, taste it like some strange exotic flavor on your tongue you expect to dislike. You don't, though, and maybe that's the strangest thing: you don't mind that this isn't real, because neither was the life you lived out there, before. It was a borrowed existence, a fraud. At least this life, real or not, is your own.

When Thomas leaves you after five weeks, arguing that you take your computers more seriously than him and that the two of you have no interests in common, you try to make yourself believe that it doesn't matter because he's not even a real person, just a virtual projection. It doesn't work, though. Either you accept all of this as real and live your life as you would outside the virtual environment, or there's no purpose in any of this; you cannot have it both ways.

* * *

You couldn't possibly be more surprised than you are when Colonel Sheppard turns up on your doorstep, wearing jeans and a white shirt and dark shadows under his eyes.

Your first instinct is that maybe they need you for something and sent him to fetch you, but before you even complete the thought, you realize that you're being silly. If they needed you, they wouldn't have to fetch you; they'd just download your consciousness and upload it to a physical body. The realization stops you and gives you an idea, one that terrifies you because it's altogether too possible: what if the Colonel has only come to tell you they'll switch the VE off? There won't be a thing you can do about it, no one to fight, no one to argue with.

The thought won't let you go and, stepping aside to let him in, you cannot keep the wariness out of your voice when you greet him.

"Colonel."

He smiles at you, and some of the weariness eases from his face. "It's good to see you. Seems like you've adjusted pretty well to your new life after all."

You look around in your apartment, trying to see what has made him come to that conclusion. But it's you he's looking at, not this place, and whatever he's seeing must be convincing enough. He doesn't look like he's here bearing bad news, and once you allow yourself to relax a little, you realize that you _are_ glad to see him. You know that you probably wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for him, and he has always been friendly towards you, both before and after he found out what you are, which is nothing you've taken for granted.

"It took me a while to get used to it," you admit. "Losing Richard and my work. It's so different now. But I'm doing alright. I work at the high school, I'm making new friends. I feel... It's silly, but it's as if I'm not as much of an outsider as I used to be."

One of his eyebrows shoots up. "You teach?"

And with his question, the wariness is back full force and you suddenly feel oddly defensive, as if you've done something wrong and they'll take it all away from you. "Look, I know they said not to get involved in anything scientific, but teaching children how to use computers is hardly science."

Your tone must have come out sharper than you intend, because the Colonel holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, easy! I'm not here because they sent me to check on you."

What puts you at ease is the amusement beneath the deliberately soothing drawl of his voice and the hint of a smile that's tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Why are you here, then?" It's curiosity, not rudeness or fear now that makes you ask. 

Fascinatingly, the question seems to render him oddly uncomfortable. He won't meet your eyes and his hand comes up to scratch the back of his head in a typical gesture of nervousness. "I was... in the area and I thought I'd check in."

You wonder what to make of the obvious lie, trying to decipher his body language, and you watch as he shifts under your stare. 

The silence stretches awkwardly until his jaw sets unhappily and he admits, "They made me take a vacation and I got bored, okay?"

"And you don't have too many people on Earth you could visit. I see." You offer him a smile, because you mean it – you really do get it. "I take it things have been rough on Atlantis, if they make a vacation mandatory."

He looks taken aback for a moment. "I keep forgetting that you know more than you ought to know."

"I don't think I'm in any danger of accidentally or deliberately spreading any government secrets while I'm in here, Colonel Sheppard." It's the first time that either of you refers to the virtual reality, and from the instant guilty expression on his face, you can guess that he doesn't expect you to know.

"I'm sorry. It was the only way to make sure you—"

"There's no need to apologize. It's all right." 

It is plain to see that he doesn't believe you and you understand why. You would have said the same, brushed it off with a platitude, if it wasn't all right. But it _is_ , and you want him to know, so you reach out and put your hand on his, squeezing softly. The touch is meant to be reassuring, a way to establish a connection. Instead, he jumps slightly, and when he looks down at where your hand is still resting on his, his expression is more confused and harder to read than ever. Something curls in your stomach, a curious mix of emotions you find yourself unable to dissect. Your heart beat echoes loudly in your ears, reminding you more acutely than ever of how different things are here: outside, in the real world, you didn't actually have a heart; you looked like a human but you weren't, and you never felt like one. Now, even though your physical body is only an illusion, you can feel it as if it were alive. 

"I'm fine with it," you add, tardily. If anything, it's an understatement. You're more than fine. It might have been intended as a prison, but for you it's not: it's a gift. 

It's freedom.

* * *

The Colonel is back the next day, looking a little less tired and rumpled, leaning in your doorway with a lopsided, sheepish little grin. He lifts one of his shoulders in what you assume is supposed to be a close approximation to a shrug.

"Still nothing better to do," he says, by the way of explanation, and you're not sure whether you should feel flattered or insulted.

The truth is, though, you're glad that he's here, because it's your free day and you never quite know what to do with yourself on those. It was different when you were still with Thomas, but now, you just sit around and wonder how humans decide which hobbies they should take on. There was never much time to spare for leisure activity when you were working with Richard, so he didn't bother to add a pre-set list of interests to your programming. You literally don't know what you like.

When he suggests you take a walk together, you gladly take him up on the offer, grateful for the distraction and the company. You lead him to the park where, five months ago, you last saw him. If he notices the location, he doesn't comment. Instead, he listens to you talk about your new life, about your class, about how you're still a little startled by dreaming because you have trouble distinguishing it from what passes for reality. It's obvious that he prefers hearing you talk to offering to share any of his own experiences, and you hold back the curious questions about what happened on Atlantis that was so bad that they made him take a break.

You sit down on a park bench together, watching children play hide and seek and people take a run with their dogs in tow. A short distance away, a young couple is fighting. The words don't carry over, but the volume of their voices does, and you fall silent, watching them.

You frown at the display. "It's odd. Physically, I'm more human now than I used to be. But sometimes, human nature is still a mystery to me."

The Colonel snorts. "Yeah, well, I've been human for forty years, give or take, except for that one week when I turned into a bug, and I still can't say I really understand human behavior most of the time."

Even as you smile, you know that underneath the joke, he's probably right. Something as complex and erratic as human nature cannot ever be fully understood. 

While you're contemplating this, the clouds release a cool April shower that soaks through your clothes in a matter of minutes. The park suddenly seems like a less than comfortable place to sit down and have a chat, so you agree to head back to your place.

Wading through the muddy mess the pathway has become, the Colonel frowns. "Why does it even rain here? It's kind of sadistic to program bad weather into a virtual environment, if you think about it."

You laugh at the could-be-fake whiny edge in his voice that seems to try and make you believe that he actually minds a bit of rain. "I think Dr. Lee just wanted to make it as realistic as possible."

"Still." He sounds skeptical, his drawl a little more pronounced than usual. "That's taking realism a bit too far." 

"Maybe he thought I'd miss the rain."

"Huh. Would you?"

"Perhaps." You've never thought about it, really. The weather in here is just as unpredictable and changeable as the weather in the outside world, and you've accepted it because... well, it's what you're used to. Now that the Colonel mentions it, though, you realize that you probably wouldn't like living in a world with blue skies and sunshine every day. "Yes, I think I would."

He gives you a strange look, a little frown furrowing the skin between his eyebrows, and as you're trying to decipher it, you don't watch where you're going and your feet slip on the wet grass. You stumble and fall, a cry of surprise on your lips, but then there's a pair of hands gripping your upper arms and the Colonel catches you before you hit the ground.

"I've got you," he says, quietly, as if you need reassurance.

As he helps you stand up, you're suddenly aware of his steadying hands on your arms, callused fingers against your skin, their grip tight without being bruising. And the warmth... it's the warmth that gets to you, leaves you hyper-aware and dizzy. You wonder if he feels so warm because it's so cool outside, or if it's because he's somehow more... alive than anything, anyone, in here.

You're so caught up in the sensation that your reply comes belated, your voice a little faint. "I know." 

You turn to smile at him, but once you're facing him, you suddenly feel rooted to the spot because he's watching you and there's something on his face that scares you and intrigues you at the same time. And then, suddenly, he kisses you. It lasts only a moment, barely enough time to react, before he breaks away, taking a step back.

"I— I didn't mean to do that," he says, and this voice is shaking a little. 

He gives you a confused look, as if it was you who kissed him, and not the other way around.

You were programmed for social interaction, so your first instinct is to put him at ease, to brush it off to make him less uncomfortable. It's not easy to push the compulsion aside. You're not even sure why you're so insistent on fighting your programming there; you just know that you have to. 

When you speak, the words that make it past your lips are not the 'Don't worry about it, it doesn't have to mean anything' that's waiting on the tip of your tongue, but a quiet, insistent, "But you did."

He doesn't answer, but when you rise on your tip-toes and brush your lips against his, he doesn't flinch or draw back. 

As kisses go, it's a rather chaste one. You're tentative and hesitant, unsure of how welcome your lips on his are, even though he's the one who started this. Just when you're about to draw back, he starts to respond and then, suddenly, there's nothing tentative about the kiss anymore: his mouth is hard and demanding, and his hands cradle your neck, thumbs sliding under your chin and pushing your mouth further upwards until you have to reach up and grasp his arms to steady yourself.

He kisses you until you're breathless, and you revel in the sensation because after all this time of not needing to breathe, the way your lungs scream for air is still new and strange and a little scary and wonderful. You break away, and he rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. 

His breath ghosts over your face and the rain drips into your eyes, and you've never felt so alive.

"I've wanted this," he says, his voice darker and lower than you ever heard from him before. The expression on his face is almost painful, like he doesn't want to say these things and they're ripped from his throat against his will, and you're torn between interrupting him to make it easier for him and hearing him out because you want to know. "Back outside, in the real world. I wanted this. You were— You were serious and brave and you risked everything to stop the Replicator. If you hadn't—You saved my life! I wish you weren't—"

And then you do stop him, two fingers against his lips to silence him because you don't want to hear it.

"It doesn't matter here," you say, and when you kiss him again, he doesn't protest.

* * *

When it's time for him to leave, he stands in front of you, uncomfortable and awkward, hands stuffed into his pants and looking anywhere but in your eyes. "You shouldn't wait for me. There's no way to— I can't promise you that I'll return."

He's been here for four days. You ask him if people would think it's strange that he spent his vacation, even if it was enforced, in a virtual environment visiting a disembodied Replicator, but he just shrugs and tells you that they have no say in what he does with his leave.

"Never say never," you say and smile a little sadly, watching it sink in that you're throwing his own words right back at him. "There's no never and no always, is there? No absolutes in life, and no certainties."

You wait for him to correct you, tell you that this isn't life, but he doesn't.

Like before, it's you who turns away. You don't want to see him fade away, fizzle out of virtual existence and return to a reality you cannot follow him to. 

Neither of you made any promises – and yet he does come back, one-hundred and fourteen days later, turning up on your doorstep wearing his uniform and a smile, and you know he came right here as soon as they let him. 

He always comes back, even if the stretches between his visits are long and uneven, and both of you know that each of his visits could be the last. He can die any day, somewhere out there in the Pegasus galaxy, out in the real world, and no one will bother to let you know. He can decide that you're not real enough for him. The IOA can choose to pull the plug from the VE and effectively end your existence in the blink of an eye. It can all be over, any day. For all that this is _not_ life, it's so similar in every way that counts. 

There are new scars on his body every time he returns, and they tell a story of a life he's living that's out of reach for you. You trace them, one by one, but you never ask him to tell you how he got them. Time is too short for this kind of talk, and the stories too ugly, and knowing about this other life of his won't help you feel any more part of it.

People keep secrets, especially from people they care about. It is only now that you truly understand.

Sometimes, you look at him and wonder whether it's the real John Sheppard, or just a program Dr. Lee wrote, a virtual version of a man you briefly knew, back in what you've come to think of as another life. But his hands on your skin feel real, as if he's flesh and blood – as if _you_ were flesh and blood – and you think that maybe it doesn't make a difference, and you don't need to know.

At the end of the day, what does it matter whether it's real for anyone else? It's real enough for you.

End.


End file.
